


Hell Above

by I_Fear_I_Fell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Torture, Waterboarding, Whump, good old fashioned heaven and hell brand homophobia, suffocation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-06-27 22:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Fear_I_Fell/pseuds/I_Fear_I_Fell
Summary: “I don’t think his punishment is quite fair,” drawled Dagon, taking a step towards Aziraphale. He tries not to fidget. “Murder through holy water is not his only crime. He stopped our final, glorious battle against the forces of Heaven, he’s been lying and betraying Hell for thousands of years, fraternizing with an Angel, and--” her expression darkens-- “he never properly filled out any paperwork in his 6,000 year career. For hislonglist of crimes, simple death by holy water is much too…shorta punishment.”The jeering of demons behind Aziraphale spikes. He didn’t think Crowley’s attitude about paperwork had gone down very well in Hell. Aziraphale feels like he’s had a bucket of cold water thrown onto him, and he hasn’t even gotten in the bath yet.or:Aziraphale's trial in Hell goes wrong. He has to deal with the consequences. Crowley tries to help.





	1. Pride Cometh Before

Aziraphale was not liking Hell. He supposed that was the point. The odor was appalling, a stench from altogether too many bodies smushed together in one place with altogether too little soap. He doubted any demons even knew what “hygiene” meant. It was damp and dark, oppressive in its cramped feeling, with viscous fluid dripping from the stained ceiling at odd intervals. Everyone leered when he passed by. Aside from that, he’d been (rather rudely) kidnapped, and Hastur had not been gentle with dragging him. Or with the pole he knocked him out with. Every time he’d tried to speak as he’d been hauled through Hell, Hastur had given him a few more knocks for fun, and his body was aching. 

And, plainly speaking, Aziraphale didn’t like the idea of this unfriendly bunch being “Crowley’s people”, so to speak. He’d always worried for him and feared what Hell might do had they discovered The Arrangement, but now he was seeing it play out right before him and he was having trouble keeping a check on his feelings. 

They’d bound at the wrists and dragged him into a mouldering room, mostly empty aside from a bathtub behind him, and odd bleachers and Beelzebub’s throne in front. The tiles covering the walls were patchy at best, and the lights were flickering. Demons pressed up against a window on one side to catch a glimpse of the trial, their hushed conversation quieting as soon as he walked in. Beelzebub sat across from him, leisurely slouching in their throne, looking bored already. Hastur and a demon named Dagon flanked her. 

Despite it being part of the plan, he was still trying to shake off the fear at seeing Crowley-as-him bound and gagged, screaming warnings behind the cloth and being dragged away right in front of him. He didn’t think any amount of preparation would have made him okay with that. He dearly hoped Crowley would be all right. 

Well, if he and Crowley’s plan succeeded, neither Heaven or Hell would ever come near Crowley again. Or not for a few hundred years, at least. And if they did, Aziraphale would deal with them when the time came. 

In the meantime, Aziraphale was attempting to navigate this sham of a trial with as much grace as possible. They didn’t even have a defense attorney! The idea of these three executing Crowley --demons chanting his guilt from the sidelines when they didn’t have the right to judge--Aziraphale could barely stand it. He found it hard to understand how Crowley--wonderful, brave, kind Crowley--could have come out of a stinking cesspool like this. It was the very opposite of his nature. 

At least it would be quick; Heaven’s trials really could drag on. He had the feeling he would be the one to return to Earth more quickly. 

“What’s it going to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?” Aziraphale asked. He tried to be as nonchalant as possible. He didn’t know if he could be quite as suave as Crowley, but centuries of watching and admiring him had to pay off somehow. 

“No, we’re going to do something even worse—letting the punishment fit the crime.” Hastur bared his teeth in the mockery of a grin that stretched the sores on his cheek unpleasantly. His expression was satisfied for Aziraphale’s liking—the idea of Crowley working with Hastur regularly, someone pleased to see him die so horrifically, has him gritting his teeth. 

There was a split second of wondering how they would get the Holy Water. 

Then Michael walked in. 

The crowd behind him gasped. 

“The archangel Michael,” Aziraphale carefully masked his betrayal. “That’s… unlikely.” He’d predicted they’d get Holy Water somehow, but for a high-ranking Angel to supply it to Hell was unprecedented. And for it to be Michael… that was, well. Low. 

“Cooperation with our old enemies,” Dagon smiles. It’s not a pleasant one. Aziraphale burned at the hypocrisy. He and Crowley hadn’t done much worse. 

“Well, white wings, you brought the stuff?” asked Hastur. 

“I did. I’ll be back to collect it.” She gave him a cool look. 

“Well, I think perhaps you might want to do the honors. I’ve seen what that stuff can do.” Hastur said nervously. Michael nodded, beginning to pour the Holy Water into the tub. The room involuntarily falls into a hush, the dead silence hanging heavily over the crowd. 

(Aziraphale’s mind reminds him that this is how Crowley could have died; trapped by enemies on all sides, painfully, and alone. He tries to push it out of mind, feeling sick.)

“Wait,” said Dagon. Her voice rings out like a shot in the quiet. Slowly, Aziraphale turns to face her; Beelzebub and Hastur also shoot her a questioning look. She’s staring Aziraphale down, and he doesn’t like her expression. 

He thinks he remembers Dagon, now: Dagon, Lord Of The Files, Master Of Madness, Under-Duke Of The Seventh Torment. He’d heard stories about her, from the Great War and a little after, some from Crowley, some whispered from other angels. Fallen kings whose heads were displayed in her temples, a few things about people’s hands and feet being chopped off, general lording over humans through violence. Nowadays, she was a lord of bureaucracy. Crowley had complained of her bothering him about paperwork on more than one occasion, and now it seemed she was getting her revenge. 

“I don’t think his punishment is quite fair,” drawled Dagon, taking a step towards Aziraphale. He tries not to fidget. “Murder through holy water is not his only crime. He stopped our final, glorious battle against the forces of Heaven, he’s been lying and betraying Hell for thousands of years, fraternizing with an Angel, and--” her expression darkens-- “he never properly filled out any paperwork in his 6,000 year career. For his _long list of crimes_ , simple death by holy water is much too… _short_ a punishment.” 

The jeering of demons behind Aziraphale spikes. He didn’t think Crowley’s attitude about paperwork had gone down very well in Hell. Aziraphale feels like he’s had a bucket of cold water thrown onto him, and he hasn’t even gotten in the bath yet. That would be preferable to whatever Dagon wants from him. Without meaning to, he takes a sharp inhale, which doesn’t escape Beelzebub’s notice. She grins, too, and he strains to keep his expression cool behind the glasses. 

_Damn it, Crowley,_ Aziraphale thought. _Why does your pettiness have to come back to haunt me now?_ Not that he doesn’t love that particular brand of uncooperativeness when it’s not aimed at him, but. Details. He almost wanted to be angry at Crowley, but he knew it wasn’t really his fault. 

“What do you want me to do,” Aziraphale drawls, despite his anxiety. “A thousand years’ worth of paperwork?” 

He is ignored. 

“Lord Beelzebub,” Dagon bows slightly. “Would your Most Merciless Disgrace allow me to enact my own additional punishment to the accused before the execution commences?” 

The decision only takes Beelzebub a second. 

“Do whatever you want,” she agrees. 

…

Crowley registered waking up in a chair, bound to its arms with coarse rope. At least it had allowed him to sit back while Gabriel went through his disparagement of Aziraphale, which was majorly pissing him off. He tried to keep his expression calmer than he felt. He thought he was managing icily furious quite nicely. 

With it’s open, glass-walled rooms and caged-in feeling, Heaven gave off just as oppressive a feeling as Hell. It just went about it slightly differently. He could feel an odd sort of weight, of discord maybe, in Heaven; like a vibration so strong you could feel it through your whole body, but you were out of tune from the music so it was unpleasant and grating. It had been so long, he’d nearly forgotten what Heaven was like, but he thought some deep part of him remembered this feeling; it was both alien and familiar, and nothing like Earth. Heaven and Hell were more similar than they probably wanted to acknowledge. There was a strange irony in it. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been out for, but the transformation still felt strong, so he figured that at least was fine. At this point he just kind of wanted to get this over with. Gabriel’s prattling was insufferable. 

Crowley had always hated Gabriel in particular. He didn’t think God herself had decided all the fallen, no, in the old days there had been others who’d created the Fallen, too. Decided who would be cast out of Heaven. Gabriel had been one of them. He’d always suspected that Gabriel had been the one who’d sent him away. He didn’t always regret falling, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t loathe Gabriel for being the one to curse him to it. 

“Don’t—“ Gabriel was saying, “Talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the Archangel _fucking_ Gabriel. The greater good _was_ , we were finally going to settle things between us and the opposition once and for all.” 

Politely, Crowley-as-Aziraphale smiles thinly and says, “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider? We’re meant to be the good guys, for heaven's sake!” Aziraphale was always gracious, always polite; he kept a straighter spine than all these other Angels put together. Crowley knew Aziraphale would be brave and unflinching in the face of divine punishment. His bravery was one of the many things Crowley loved about him.

“Well, _for heaven's sake,_ we are meant to make examples out of traitors. So,” Gabriel gestures. “Into the flame.” 

“Right. Well. Lovely knowing you all,” he smiled wanly. “May we meet on a better occasion.” 

“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already.” Crowley felt his blood boil. 

How could they just--just expect Aziraphale to walk straight into the fire like that? To meekly accept his punishment even when it’s not deserved, just because it comes from a position of authority? To exert this kind of manipulative control over him, make him believe that his unfair treatment was correct? To believe that they had the right to just _kill his angel?_ But, Crowley knows Aziraphale would do it. He would walk into the fire with grace and dignity, because, at his heart, that’s what Aziraphale was made of. He was forgiving and kind to the end and the kind of person all Angels should be, and he would do it. 

So, Crowley does. 

And watches with delight as Sandalphon, Gabriel and Uriel’s faces melt from satisfaction into dawning horror. With no small amount of glee, Crowley breaks character a little bit, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack. He grinned. Time to scare the _Hell_ out of these bastards. 

… 

“Hmm… what to do, what to do,” Dagon mused. “A breaking wheel? An iron chair? The rack is always a classic.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what those were, but he was quite sure he didn’t want to find out. Hell, after all, was well known for it’s torture: it was kind of their job. 

He’d known that his job would likely be the harder when he’d suggested this plan to Crowley. He’d known that fooling Hell had a higher chance of going wrong, and that they might punish him more harshly than Heaven would. The prophecy had, after all, only mentioned fire; Holy Water was never specified, or any water at all. He hadn’t mentioned anything to Crowley, because it was still their best shot and he’d rather carry the brunt of whatever was coming for them. But whatever Dagon wanted, it didn’t seem like anything he could expect. 

He’d been moved to a different room. It was a little like an arena, though it wasn’t open on the top and was smaller and more enclosed. Just like everything in hell, it was a dark grey-black. Not exactly the most relaxing atmosphere. He’d been strapped down to a cold metal table, almost surgical in its appearance, and he weakly pulled at the straps keeping him tied down, not for lack of trying. 

Dagon and the demon accompioning her had taken the liberty of roughing him up on the way there, and he was sporting a split lip and tender ribs because of it. He thought there might be a trickle of blood coming out of his nose where he’d been punched, but he couldn’t reach up to check. He’d given them a hard time strapping him in. He didn’t regret it. Regardless of the end result, he wouldn’t go down easy. 

He dearly hoped that Dagon would be quick and they could move on to the Holy Water. If their ruse failed, it would mean very bad things for Crowley. He was certain they could fool Heaven; they wouldn’t expect subterfuge or think they could be tricked. But if they found out he wasn’t really Crowley… they’d find the real Crowley and execute him. 

Also, it would mean very bad things for Aziraphale down here in the immediate future. Couldn’t forget that part. 

“We hear down here that you’ve become fond of human food and drink.” Dagon began. Aziraphale found the attempt at pre-torture back-and-forth quite tiring.

“Aren’t I supposed to be promoting vices? I’m a demon, after all,” said Aziraphale. 

“Spot on, aren’t you,” she bared her teeth. “I’ll give you gluttony. You're going to beg me to stop.” 

The line was a little cliche, but he supposed it did the job of stakes-raising banter; Aziraphale felt his anxiety spiking as he realized more and more just how trapped he was, without hope of aid or rescue. Nevertheless, Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley wouldn’t let himself be intimidated into submission by authority or petty threats.  
That had always been much more Aziraphale’s style. 

A demon Aziraphale couldn’t see behind him lowered his chair, so he was at an incline looking up, but his feet were raised above his head. He felt terribly vulnerable, lying back. 

“Oh, I doubt that,” he managed weakly. He pressed Crowley’s lips into a tight smile, though his eyes were wide behind his glasses. Dagon produced a pitcher, much like the one Michael had held, and walked slowly over to stand above Aziraphale. She produced a rag, too, darkly colored; he couldn’t tell if it was originally lighter and then was stained or if it was always black, but the smell indicated the latter. Aziraphale realized what she was about to do. 

“Wait, I don’t think this is really-” She placed the rag over his mouth and nose. He froze in fear. 

There was a widespread myth that Angels didn’t have to breathe. Well, their angelic forms don’t need to, of course, but Earthly forms were different; while tougher than humans, they weren’t impervious: lungs full of water would discorporate them as surely as it would a human.

He’d been discorporated by drowning, once, way back in the 13th century. It’d been bad, then, but at least it was quick; he’d dashed his head on a rock when he fell into the water, so he hadn’t been conscious for most of it. He’d been reprimanded by Gabriel for losing his body in such a foolish manner. He’d brushed it off, had never spoken about it with anyone, but it still took decades for him to stop being nervous around the ocean. He still didn’t visit it; not wanting to risk anything like the first accident. 

This was worse. 

It wasn’t water, it wasn’t alcohol, though it smelled like it, it was something else that was thicker-- he tried to hold out, hold his breath as she poured it on his face and into his nose-- but she landed a blow on his ribs, right where he’d been struck before and he gasped a breath despite himself-- fluid--running in through his nose and filling his mouth-- and then he couldn’t-- _think_ \-- he might have cried out-- 

_oh god someone helpmeohgodohgod--someone--i’m drowning--godplease--Crowley-- Crowleyhelpmeohgodidon’twanttodie-- please--_

He was gasping for air, drowning, no, burning alive--it burned in his lungs, he was choking on it, and _this must be what Hellfire feels like, this must be what it’s like to die forever_ \-- he was writhing, trying to rip his face away in his seat but he was held still-- _help_ \-- 

She stopped pouring for a moment. He registered Dagon talking, a smug,“You don’t like that much, now do you, _Master Crowley,_ ” and all he could register was-- was Crowley. He felt overwhelmed suddenly, even more than he was before, at the thought of him; he didn’t know if the deep ache in his chest was good or bad, but he blinked his watering eyes harshly to keep from crying and tried to focus on it. He was alright. He would be alright. He gritted his teeth to brace himself. 

She began to tip the pitcher, and stopped short suddenly. He stared up at her in confusion, breath caught in his throat. She leaned forward suddenly, too close, nose almost touching his neck. Her breath smelled of dead fish, hot and almost sticky on his skin. 

“You… you smell of Angel,” she gurgled. He never knew a gurgle could be so intimidating. _Damn it all._

“Well, that’d be the--uh--” 

“You were with your little boyfriend before they caught you, I hear,” she added gleefully. “Disgusting enough, you being with him, but enough to get all this scent on you?” She made a face, leaning back. 

“I don’t--” he broke off into rattling coughs, gasping. “I don’t… really mind it.” he tried. She screwed up her face even more. 

“You won’t like this: I hear they’re going to put ‘im in Hellfire up in Heaven. Too bad we don’t get to see that. But you’ll both be done soon enough. And just-- just shut up, for Satan’s sake.” 

And she began pouring again. 

_helpme--stop--plea--stopstopstopstopstopstopican’ttakeit--stOPSTOPSTOP--_

It went on for what felt like days but could have been anything from years to minutes to hours. If he were human, he would have died already, but Angel bodies were withstand quite a bit more than a mortal beings’ could. As it was, it was just prolonging Aziraphale’s pain.

Again, he soaked cloth was ripped from his nose for a glorious moment, and he was shaking, coughing, barely lucid as he laid slack. Dagon’s face swam into his vision. Her grin was almost too wide for her face. He gazed silently up at her, as resolute as he could be while coughing rattlingly and slightly drooling. His arms and legs ached from where he'd strained at the restraints. 

“You know what I said, Master Crowley,” she trilled. “That you’d beg me. You can, you know; being silent is no fun.” 

She went to tip the pitcher again, and despite himself, he flinched a little. 

“Ooh, I know what that means,” she said. “All you have to do is say ‘Please, stop, your Disgrace. Is that so hard? Pay us lowly demons down in Hell some respect after flaunting your status on Earth for a couple thousand years?" 

Aziraphale sneered, then spat in her face. 

It might be a sin, but he still had his pride. 

…

Crowley was sitting on a park bench, thinking about Aziraphale. They were not pleasant thoughts of future plans, not even mildly irritated ones, like when they’d just had a spat but he knew they’d make it up sooner or later. They weren’t even the ones that visited him in his lonelier moments, an aching guilty pleasure of what could be. No, these thoughts were concerned. 

Where the hell was he? He should have been done by now. Crowley wanted to tell him about the spitting Hellfire, and ask him if he thought it was too much. He was sure Aziraphale would find it humorous, if he were actually there. But the spot next to him on the bench remained inexplicably empty. 

He didn’t know exactly how much time the transformation had left, and he wasn’t keen on pushing their luck. 

You may be wondering how Crowley and Aziraphale turned into one another at all. It was quite simple, really. 

Well, it wasn’t a true and full transformation—otherwise, the Hellfire and Holy Water could have truly given them some trouble. No, Crowley could only really switch physically between his human(ish) and snake forms. If he could change other aspects of his body at will, (in a lasting manner, forming a dog’s head for a brief moment was easy enough), then he would have changed his eyes long ago. Or at least during the 14th century; it would have saved him a lot of trouble. 

Instead, it was a bit of a minor miracle, one that only Aziraphale and Crowley could have thought up. (Though, Aziraphale was the one to initially propose it. He was always keen on plans.) The Plan (capital for emphasis) was a good one. Truth was, they were the only angel and demon to have spent enough time with one another to work out the mechanics of the switch. 

Miracles are performed through pushing some of your angelic or demonic energy into an object or the world at large, and forcing them to change to your will. To become each other, Aziraphale and Crowley just had to touch and perform a miracle on one another, though only halfway. Really trying to change one another could have destroyed each others’ bodies, especially Crowley; demonic bodies don’t take being charged with Holy energy very well. (See: effects of Holy Water.) Instead, they did just enough to last for their respective trials, which only caused a particularly bad case of pins and needles. The effect of the Angelic of the Demon energy pushed onto them also masked their natural “scent” from Heaven or Hell respectively, which was what would sell the illusion. 

Crowley was getting antsy on his bench, and he didn’t know if the crawling feeling was just from the transformation. Aziraphale should have been back by now, where they could safely reverse the miracle and push the energy back to their respective owners. It had been three hours. Aziraphale didn’t like to keep him waiting. It wasn’t right. 

Then, he felt it, a _thrum_ in the transformation. Not a tear, but a strain, like Aziraphale was trying his best to hold on to the concentration needed to maintain it but struggling. The shudder worked its way up his spine, leaving his whole body prickling unpleasantly. To Crowley, it was a call for help. 

Something had gone wrong. 

He needed to go back to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me how you liked it! im definitely open to constructive criticism or other interpretations of the book/series. i know people have many different ideas on how their assigned bodies or miracles work and this was just my explanation. i also don't write very often, but i was inspired by this series and wondered how it would go if their trials went wrong. 
> 
> also! i can tag for more trigger warnings if you ask! i wouldn't want my work to trigger anyone, that would be awful.  
> i know the torture may be graphic but i don't want to come off as gratiutious, and i hope i don't come across as writing torture porn because one im a lesbian so i really am not writing gay men's pain in a sexual way or for my own pleasure, and two, im really trying to be at least somewhat sensitive and realistic. please lmk if i don't come across as those things! if anything it's more of an exploration of hell and expression of my pain/desire to be comforted lol. also because the concept is fun. 
> 
> sorry if this was super long! i really like good omens and these characters and want to do a good job! thanks for reading! hope you enjoy!


	2. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Choking, some light description of injury and blood. Let me know if there's anything else!

Aziraphale was still strapped to the table. 

Dagon was talking to someone at the door, arguing, but he couldn’t make sense of what they were saying and he was leaned too far back to get a clear view. He felt off, unfocused, like he wasn’t completely in control of himself or aware; his baser emotions and instincts at the forefront of his mind instead of logic, though with each passing second he gained a little more awareness. He thanked God for the brief reprieve, even if she wasn’t listening. 

Now that he had a second to think, his worries were only compounded; his chest felt like it was burning from the inside, and no matter how much he coughed or gasped for breath, he never stopped feeling like he couldn’t get enough air. That treatment had nearly finished him, it felt like. 

_What would happen if I discorporated down here?_ Aziraphale realized with a cold bolt of terror. Did they think that they could do things that would normally discorporate Crowley, because he was in Hell? But Aziraphale was different; if Aziraphale died down here, his spirit would go up to Heaven, where he would be out of a body to return to Earth with, and out of options. The ruse would be up. Then he would really be dead. 

He only noticed Dagon had walked back up to him when she was just a couple steps away. She was practically oozing irritation, tense in the set of her jaw, and she glared even harder when Aziraphale met her eyes. What had they said to her? 

Aziraphale stilled as she wordlessly reached over and began to unstrap him from the chair, his confusion growing, but also his hope. Was the torture over? Maybe Beelzebub wanted the execution as quickly as possible, and they were going to do the Holy Water bit now. Maybe he still had a chance of getting out of this alive. 

“Are we getting on to the execution bit, now?” Aziraphale asked faux-innocently, not being able to help his slight smugness. 

To his dread, this actually made Dagon laugh, wheezing, her hands stilling on his last bond for a moment. He eyed her clawed nails resting on his arm with trepidation. 

“That eager to die?” she asked. “I have as much time as I want with you, you don’t need to worry about that just yet. If I didn’t know better, you’d almost sound like you’re not enjoying this. No, we’ve only just begun!” 

Aziraphale’s only answer was to twist roughly to the side as soon as the last strap came off. Dagon had another demon behind him holding him down, but as soon as she took off the last strap Aziraphale used all his strength to throw her off, landing roughly on the floor. His legs and chest flared in pain and he rolled to the side and launched himself into a run for the door, pure adrenaline feeding his speed. 

The torture wasn’t _done?_ He wasn’t sure he could bear this for as long as it would last, and the transformation certainly wouldn’t. 

Desperately, he went to rip the door open-- but he wasn’t fast enough. He felt them grabbing him, harsh, clawing, gripping his arms and tripping him up; he crashed to the floor for what felt like the hundredth time today, cracking his head harshly against the ground. He was stunned for a long moment, and the helmeted demon helping Dagon wrenched his arms behind his back and hoisted him up once more, her hands like steel vices holding him in place. He tried to jerk away to no avail. Dagon came to stand in front of him again, her mouth set in a sneer around pointed teeth. 

“Da-” he started, ending up with a kick in the mouth. He rolled with it, shielding his face for a brief moment. “Dagon, c’mon, can’t we work something out here?” Aziraphale pleaded in his best “Negotiating Crowley” voice. Well, it was a great deal raspier than normal but it was close enough. 

“The only thing being worked out is the details of your punishment,” she sneered, sneeringly. 

“Oh, do be reasonable! This is-” _barbaric,_ he cut himself off. He figured she wouldn’t care. 

“How many times do we have to teach you this lesson?” she griped, drawing closer. “Respect. Your. Superiors. ” Her eyes looked almost dilated, deep-set and a watery pale blue, narrowed and glowering. Aziraphale glared back. 

She punched him in the face so hard it gave him whiplash. The first one didn’t hurt as much as he thought it should, only making what seemed like a loud _thunk_ against his skull. Then again, her fist catching the bridge of his nose; sharp pain exploded across his face and his head lolled to the side before he found the strength to pick it back up. His nose felt misshapen and it throbbed; his hands instinctively went to shield it but his arms were held fast. 

_I really hate Dagon,_ Aziraphale found himself thinking. He was wheezing out a laugh before he even registered it, background noise to his ringing ears. It felt so good to be able to think that; he didn’t fear Hell’s scorn like he did Heaven’s, he just feared what they would do to him. But what they thought of him? He didn’t give a damn. 

And how _odd_ it was that that thought could feel so freeing when he was in this situation! He didn’t have to give his respect to anyone anymore. He had nothing left to lose. It sent a thrill of giddiness through him. He felt dizzy. Maybe that was just the head injury. 

Incensed by his laughter, Dagon punched him again and again and again until he lost count and his vision started to blur, his knees sagging. He struggled mindlessly to escape at first but soon he found he wasn’t able to--and she just kept hitting him, long after he collapsed and his full weight was being supported by the arms holding him back, and wondered if this was how he would die, skull cracked open on Dagon’s scaled knuckles. The fear was back now as he realized he did have something left to lose: his and Crowley’s lives. 

“S-stop,” he gasped out. Blood dripped from his lips. “I’ll-- I’ll _die_ \--!” 

He blinked, dazed, as she drew back. She regarded him with a pleased tilt to her lips. “So that’s how long it takes?” she asked rhetorically. “I guess I should have expected as much. No use expecting any better from the likes of you.” 

His face was on fire. His nose felt broken and one of his eyes swollen like it was going to burst, throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat. Worse than that, though, was the burning shame and rage. She was wrong, he had to believe it. He hadn’t surrendered yet. He just had someone to come back to. 

His unfocused gaze drooped towards the floor and landed on Dagon’s hand resting by her side. It was splattered in blood, or more accurately ichor, dripping down her knuckles and coating the floor in pinpricks of gold. The drops looked like little stars on the black backdrop of the floor. He felt, for a moment, that all the good things left in him might be draining away along with his shed blood.

And then they were dragging him out of the room. Dagon threw him to the floor of a cramped, dim cell, his body sagging against the damp wall. He started to struggle to his feet, but she knocked his legs out from under him again, his head smashing into the ground with a _thwack._ Crowley’s glasses flew off his face and skidded along the ground, cracking. Aziraphale had only a moment to feel angry before she landed another blow to his cheekbone. Dizzy, he could only weakly struggle as Dagon snapped handcuffs onto him. They were heavy and slightly too tight, and their short chain connected him to the floor of the cell. They chafed against his already raw wrists. She leveled him with a smug look. 

“Careful,” she mocked. “These’ll burn you if you even think about removing them, and I’ll know.” She walked out, slamming the door shut with a slam, then a click as it locked. 

Dazed, he put his bound hands to his forehead and felt ichor, dripping from his temple and staining the floor. A wheezing laugh escaped him; when was the last time he had bled like a human? Halfway through, his laugh became a sob, and he pressed a hand tightly to his mouth. Tears pricked his eyes. 

Crowley wouldn’t cry, if he were here. He’d escape Dagon, take her out in some flashy and daring escape, then finish it off with something clever. Crowley’s always been stronger than him. Aziraphale likes to watch out for threats; he’s more careful and a planner in that way, but he’s no good in a fight. Aziraphale is too indecisive, too weak, too _soft_. Crowley had often saved him from the repercussions of that softness, let him indulge in it; saving him not simply from Nazis or the guillotine but from having to commit violence to escape them. He was kinder and stronger than Aziraphale in that way. 

Aziraphale wasn’t like Angels were supposed to be. And now he was at the mercy of Hell. If even Heaven wasn’t being merciful at this point, he didn’t fancy his chances down here. If only Crowley were… 

_If he were here…_

Aziraphale’s eyes catch on the discarded sunglasses next to him, and sees himself; but it’s not him, it’s _Crowley,_ his beautiful golden eyes wide and scared, with blood dripping down his temple and bruises blooming on his cheekbones. His face was pale and his eyes bloodshot, his nose clearly broken. Aziraphale’s heart twists, as painfully real as any of his injuries, and he has to tear his gaze away before he falls apart at the sight, feeling a hot flash of anger.

Well, “flash” isn’t quite accurate, because calling what he was feeling a “flash of anger” was like calling a hurricane a light drizzle. It fizzles through him, a writhing mass in his chest threatening to explode out, and it gives him the energy to focus. 

Crowley being here, Aziraphale thought, doesn’t bear considering because the idea of it was _inexcusable_. Because, despite the fake trial and Heaven turning their backs on him and the torture, Aziraphale wouldn’t switch their positions for the world. He never wants to see Crowley hurt ever again, and he’d give anything to keep from seeing anything like his reflection come to life. 

Despite his choice of softness, he’s always been an angel first and foremost. The Principality Aziraphale, a warrior of heaven, Angel of the Eastern Gate; and getting kicked around a little wouldn’t change that. He didn’t need to wait around for a savior or simply endure the tests of Hell. He wasn’t going to let Hell treat him like they were above him. He was getting out of here, help or not, because Crowley needed him to. He didn’t think the transformation would last till the trial, so he had to find a way to escape. 

_Right,_ he thought. _So how to actually do that…_

… 

Something was wrong. 

He was as certain as he was about the Antichrist finding his Hellhound, and he didn’t need a scent to tell this time; hours had passed without Aziraphale showing up and he knew that if all was well it couldn’t have taken that long. For all he knew, it had been even longer, Heaven had knocked him out after all. He could have been passed out for any period of time. Crowley didn’t want to consider what this could mean for Aziraphale. 

He headed to the Gates as fast as he could. He walked into the nearly-empty lobby in a highly conspicuous manner, polished shoes clacking on the floor, but he couldn’t really think of any other entry point that would be as fast. The person there to admit incoming angels and demons looked faint at the sight of him. 

“P-principality Aziraphale,” she manages. “Going back up to--?” 

“No,” he says curtly. She grows paler, somehow. 

“Then-” She can’t seem to manage any more than that. 

“Yup. I’m heading Downstairs.” She flounders for a moment. 

“I-I don’t think I can- I mean, I’m not sure if you’re supposed to- can you do that?” 

She’s speaking to an empty room. He’s already gone. 

She picks up a tablet. 

“I think we’re going to need some security Downstairs,” she said. 

… 

Aziraphale lay heavily on his side, propped up in the corner of his cell, thinking about escape. The craggy surface dug uncomfortably into his back, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. Dagon had opened a gash along his ribs somewhere along the line, whether it was from dragging him, kicking him, or somewhere else he didn’t know but it stung. It was hardly the worst of his injuries but blood was slowly soaking his shirt. 

Now given a moment to collect himself, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts stray a little. About the trial, Hell, Crowley, but also Heaven. He’d tried to bury it deep down in his mind, but he still felt… betrayed. Hurt. He’d tried for so long to do everything right, to earn the respect and love he was searching for, but it had all been for nothing. Just because he had wanted to save the world. 

Even now, in this situation, he was still trying to be Good. Do what he believed they would want him to do, even though he knew that if he wanted to make it out of here alive he would have to do some bad. It was hard to reconcile what he felt was good and what Heaven told him was Good, because he thought they should be the same, but they were somehow startlingly different. He wasn’t sure when that had started, when he and Heaven had become unmatched, and he was a lost puzzle piece trying to fit in where he didn’t belong.

In the end, for all they said about good and evil, sin and purity, Heaven didn’t actually want him to _love._ Yes, some amount of impassive, gracious love to all of God’s creatures, but not true love. Specific love. Human love, love that would make you do anything for someone. And least of all, they wanted Aziraphale to love a demon. 

He’d denied himself that love for so long, and he’d denied it from Crowley, too, which was worse. He’d left him waiting without hope for so long. With an “ _I’m scared of heaven_ ” and especially hidden behind “ _you move too fast_ ”. All because he still wanted Heaven’s love, still wanted to be Good. To be honest, he was still a little afraid of it; Crowley’s love. That still, Heaven would somehow know that he allowed himself to love him back, and they would swoop down to smite him. That he always had to abide to their rules, or he and Crowley would be punished. 

But they were already trying, weren’t they? To punish them? That’s what the whole ruse was for. And even though Aziraphale had tried so hard for so long to hide his feelings, even to himself, Heaven already knew. What had they said? _“Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in hell?’”_ Who had he even been pretending for? 

Well, if he made it through this, he would stop pretending. He didn’t care about fast or slow; anything was fine if he could just be with Crowley. But for now, he had to hide for a little longer, which was proving extraordinarily difficult. If only he could use some of his powers… 

The problem with performing miracles was that it released a burst of easily detectable energy. Even a small one would be a neon sign in Hell, and would instantly reveal him as not being himself. The same with the transformation: if it broke, he would not only look like himself again, the released energy would alert everyone around him. 

He could feel the transformation weakening, hour by hour, and he was having to concentrate more and more to keep it intact. At this point, he didn’t have much to lose. He was quite certain he was about to do something very stupid, but he didn’t have much time to come up with a better plan. 

“Help! I’m going to discorporate!” Aziraphale shouted, pounding on the wall as best as he could since he couldn’t reach the door and his hands were bound. This just meant he was kicking the wall. He didn’t even know if this would work, considering his captors probably wouldn’t care if he died or not, but it was worth a try. 

The peephole in the door slid open hesitantly. 

“Lord Beelzebub wants me to keep my body, you know!” he reasoned, improvising. “Looks better in Holy Water that way. If you’re incorporeal, you just kinda go _poof!_ And that’s not satisfying at all. People like to watch a good melting. Dagon would be angry to find out I’d died before they could get me, and that would be on your head.” 

Unseen to the demon guarding him, Aziraphale had managed to slip one hand out of it’s cuff. It was simple, really, he only had to dislocate his thumb to do so, and it had come free with a crunch after several attempts. Dagon hadn’t lied; the cuffs had burnt him, leaving his skin blistered, red and shiny around the wrist and down his freed left hand. The skin was blotchy white and red and throbbing fiercely, but there was nothing to do for it and it meant he still had one good hand at least. 

He would have to do this like a human. 

The demon guarding him hesitantly cracked the door, and, seeing nothing particularly threatening about a chained and injured demon, walked in. He had a good look at her face, now; one eye was yellow-gold and the other so dark it looked black, and she had goat horns that curled around her face, framing it along with her cloud of inky corkscrew hair. Aziraphale exaggerated his injuries, curling in one himself. 

“All you need to do is stem the blood flow,” he rasped. “On my ribs.” 

“I don’t think I can-” 

“Just press down on the wound!” 

“Fine!” She snapped. She drew closer, slowly, and Aziraphale tried to brace himself for what came next. She looked uncomfortable, Aziraphale realized. He couldn’t help but feel a little bad about what came next.

He nodded his head to his side pointedly and she put her hands over it dutifully, though only very gently. 

“If you do it that softly, it won’t help at all!” Aziraphale said in exasperation. She put more weight into it and he groaned in pain. Even if the pressure was helping the scrape, he realized his ribs were also most likely cracked as well, and it was not being kind to the throbbing pain shooting from them. He wondered again why he was choosing this as his distraction, but it wasn’t like he had a better idea. 

At his cry of pain, the demon winced, almost pulling away before seeming to think better of it. She furrowed her brow. 

“You didn’t seem to mind hurting me before,” slipped out of his lips before he even fully formed the thought. She snarled, lip curling. Her mismatched eyes seemed to flash in irritation. 

“Doesn’t mean I like torturing people just because I live in Hell,” seemed to slip out of her just the same, judging by her startled expression. She glanced over her shoulder fearfully. 

They were quiet for a moment as she held his wound. His head was still swimming quite a bit, but he did feel as though he were healing. His desperation to be around even a single person who didn’t want him dead was making him feel hopeful about her against his will. 

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly. 

“... Baphomet.” 

“Baphomet,” Aziraphale said with a surge of fierceness, grasping at her hands. “I know you don’t want to do this. Please, let me go. You don’t have to do this.” 

She released her hands, drawing back. 

“I- I can’t. They’d give me the same punishment as you, and I don’t want to die.” She looked reticent. “Look, I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I can’t help you.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Looked like he’d have to do this the hard way, though his spinning head was already protesting. He was truly sorry to have to do this, but if he had any chance of making it out of here he couldn’t be as kind as he wanted to be. 

She seemed to read his guarded expression as frustration and sighed. 

“The bleeding’s slowing down, I should--” 

Baphomet reached out to him, starting to crouch again, and Aziraphale rushed up, kneeing her in the stomach as best as he could and grabbing her throat tightly, trying to make her either pass out or lose her corporeal form, gritting his teeth. 

She scrabbled, gasping, eyes wide and bulging, clawing at his burned wrists; and then they were tipping forward to hit the ground. Aziraphale’s back hit the floor, knocking the wind out of him, and they rolled; she writhed and ripped his hands off her neck and then they were grappling each other, struggling to seize the upper hand, trading blows; she slammed him back against the wall and he nearly lost consciousness, and in a surge of despair he threw her to the floor, pinning her again. 

This close, he could see her fear, and through his watering eyes he could see tears forming in her own. He found himself suddenly nauseous as he stared at her. 

Then the smell of burning flesh filled the room as Aziraphale realized he’d lost focus and was leaking angelic energy through his palms, searing her skin. He gagged, losing his grip for a moment; blisters were forming on her skin, still sizzling across it like bubbles forming in boiling water. She shouted in pain, throwing him off, and his head hit the stone wall with an audible _crack_. Pain burst through his head, and his whole body felt like it had been shocked. He thought he might have blacked out for a second, suddenly woozy and drained of energy. 

Weakly, he tried to push himself up, but slumped against the wall. Baphomet was hovering over him uncertainly, eyes wide in horrified shock. He couldn’t quite register why until his gaze dropped to the floor and he saw his own hands dangling by his sides. 

_The transformation._

“You-- what?” she choked out, comprehension turning to anger. “Why are you-? You’re an _Angel!_ ” 

Aziraphale found the strength to stand. 

“I won’t let you take Crowley,” he spat. She paused for a long moment, and her look of confusion shifted to understanding. 

“You’re very stupid, to have come down here for him,” she said sadly. 

“I know. But I can’t just let them kill him. I’ll do anything.” he paused awkwardly. Neither of them moved to attack each other, but they both stayed tense, despite the two of them supporting themselves on the walls of the cell. 

Baphomet closed her eyes. The fight seemed gone from her, now, and she all of a sudden looked very tired. She let out a long breath, slumping against the cracked rock behind her. 

“Just go,” she whispered. It almost seemed to echo in the cramped cell, bouncing off stone and cement. It sounded like a death rattle. 

“W-what?”

“Just go!” she pushed his chest, hard, startling him into stepping towards the door. She half-rose, digging her nails into the chinks in the wall to propel her into standing, and snarled, “Don’t make me regret it, or I’ll find you and kill you myself.” 

He looked at her and wondered how she ever Fell. 

“You’re very brave, my dear girl,” he said gently. She collapsed heavily against the surface behind her. 

“Oh fuck off,” she muttered. 

Then he slammed the cell door open and ran. 

… 

Crowley’s just reached the bottom of the escalator when it happens. 

It’s like a punch in the stomach as he feels the transformation revert with a _snap!_ , the released energy making Crowley’s hair blow back from force as a rush of air fills the hallway he’s walking down. Crowley lurches and leans heavily on the wall. That was worse than the first time, more a sudden tear than a clean transfer. Released Angelic energy sizzles across his skin, less like pins and needles and more like burning pain. 

He realizes he’s gasping, not just from the ache of the broken transformation, but the fact that he’s more afraid than he can ever remember being in his life. He feels a desperate surge of Angelic energy, _Aziraphale,_ and he knows he has to get there before anyone else does. He’s started running, heedless of stealth at this point because it’s been blown. All he can do now is try to be as fast as he can. 

He can feel Aziraphale close. He’s running at top speed, heedless of a demon who yells as he passes him because nothing matters if he can’t get to Aziraphale. He rounds a corner at an all-out sprint, nearly falling in his haste, and he-- he _sees him_. 

Crowley’s heart breaks a little when he catches sight of Aziraphale. Or a lot, or entirely. Let’s just say it breaks, shattered on the floor like his favorite pair of sunglasses. He forgets how to breathe, how to speak, mute horror replacing anything useful. 

Aziraphale’s stumbling down the hall, and he can see his jacket is ripped and stained with blood; ichor, dripping down from his forehead over a swelling eye. He’s gripping his ribs gingerly. His nose looks severely broken, purpling and smeared with even more blood, and he spots burns and sores on his wrists. When he spots Crowley, his face lights up, so relieved it hurts to look at it. 

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, moving to catch his shoulders in a gentle hold, steadying him. He can’t seem to breathe, he can’t think, all he can do is stare at Aziraphale, his angel, in horror and burning anger. “What have they done to you?” It’s purely rhetorical and not helpful at all, but he can’t stop himself from hovering a hand over his bleeding temple, gently smoothing out his blood-crusted hair. 

What _had_ they done to him? 

Aziraphale doesn’t even seem entirely conscious, and he’s leaning into Crowley without proper urgency, his eyes fluttering shut. They could save this for later. 

“We need to go,” Crowley urges, and he’s pulling Aziraphale along with him down the hall and goading him into running as best they can. Aziraphale’s limping, slightly, and Crowley’s heart is being torn into smaller and smaller pieces because he knows he must be hurting him but it’s the only choice they have. Aziraphale’s expression seems to be gaining clarity with each passing second, though, which is relieving to say the least. 

“Crowley, you can’t be here,” Aziraphale says with sudden indignation, gripping his arm with strength that seems to come out of nowhere as they run. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not too keen on staying either,” Crowley bit back. Which way was it? A left here? 

They make a left and there’s Dagon, along with a group of demons flanking her, blocking the exit. Crowley shoots a look backwards but there’s demons gathering there, too. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Crowley curses, stepping forward protectively in front of Aziraphale. 

“Shit indeed,” Dagon smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I took a very extended break from this story, haha. I didn't realize it had been so long. Honestly before I'd been kind of stressed about making this story perfect, ended up doing too much research and burnt myself out planning it before I could post much lmao. But now I've had a new burst of energy for writing in the past couple weeks and am using that to my advantage! Honestly I love the other fanfic I'm writing, but I did also really like this one and it was a lot more popular. I don't know if anyone will read this now that the Good Omens hype has died down but I hope you like it. Thanks for reading!


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